Silence
by Lady Lola
Summary: A dangerous situation during a case leaves John and Sherlock so much to deal with.  Rated T, John & Sherlock pre-slash/slash, angst and fluff.


**Author here: Hello readers and lurkers!**

**I know I should continue writing other chapters of "Sunday mornings", but the truth is, I'm stuck.**

**I really don't know where to go with that fic. **

**I thought it was a good idea, but then I messed up with the timings in the chapters and I saw little interest around it, so I lost my "magic" about that fic :/**

**I hope it'll come back soon, and if you have an idea about how "Sunday mornings" should evolve, please leave a comment: I assure I'll consider every suggestion **

**For the moment, I leave you with this new, little fic. **

**I hope you'll like it.**

**Baci.**

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><p><strong>SILENCE<strong>

**John**

John was tired.

_No, that's not correct._

John was tired and angry.

_Again: closer, but not enough._

John was tired and angry and fed up.

_Oh, now__ it's ok._

It was one o'clock in the morning, it was a cold, still, winter night and both he and Sherlock were outside their beds, freezing their asses for a case.

A case so dull and predictable that even Harry after a wild party would have solved it, but Sherlock was bored and any case was better than no cases when he was bored.

Unfortunately, this dull, predictable case had been about to turn into a fucking nightmare when Sherlock had decided to follow and face his drugged-up suspect and almost ended with a five-inch long blade in his guts.

It had been just a strike of luck that John, trying to run after Sherlock but losing him because of his shorter lope, had taken the wrong turn and ended behind the mugger.

He had hit him with a brick when he was just about to stab Sherlock.

As soon as the Yarders had arrived on the scene and Sherlock had barked his conclusions to an unknown D.I., John turned on his heels and left.

He ignored Sherlock calling his name, ignored his suggestion of taking a cab, he simply ignored _Sherlock_: he kept on walking faster and faster since his flatmate stopped talking to him and simply followed him home.

As they got home, John stepped into the flat and walked directly towards his room, not stopping either to take off his jacket or yell at his friend.

During the entire aftermath of the attack and the walk back to 221b Baker Street, he hadn't said a word.

He shut his bedroom's door, threw the jacket on the floor and sit heavily on the bed.

He waited few moments to make sure Sherlock didn't try to pick the lock and enter uninvited, then he let his feelings take over.

He started sobbing without control, the worst cry he ever did after his shooting in Afghanistan.

He curled up on the bed, embraced his legs to his chest and let the storm vent his fury, waiting for the moment in which he should have had to pick up the pieces of what was left.

**SH – SH – SH – SH**

**Sherlock**

Sherlock was bored.

It had been _ages_ (just 9 days, but in his mind it felt like ages), ages since his last case and his boredom had reached alert levels.

He was about to give up and reach his secret supplies, when he heard about a crime on the police radio frequency and immediately bolted out of the armchair.

He continued listening to the report while dressing up and he knew the crime was dull and predictable, but he would have accepted anything just to entertain his massive mind for a while.

He rudely woke John up, allowed him few minutes to prepare himself and ran out the flat to hail a cab.

After they reached the crime scene, it only took 10 minutes for Sherlock to observe the scene, connect the dots and start searching for the culprit, who obviously was still around.

As he noticed a shadow moving with the corner of his eye, he started running, leaving an incredulous John behind.

He ran recklessly for few minutes, his brain processing the neighbourhoods around him and suggesting the best roads to run faster than his opponent.

He took his last turn to enter a dark, short alley and suddenly saw the mugger right in front of him, holding a pretty big knife.

He closed his eyes as he expected the blow to hit him, and when he heard a cry of pain and the muffled sound of a body falling on the ground, he opened them in surprise.

The mugger was on the floor, still alive but unconscious, for he had a nasty bruise on the back of the head; John was there too, holding the brick he had used to knock him out, but before Sherlock had the time to thank him, he had already left the alley.

Sherlock waited the arrival of the cops, revealed his conclusions to someone he didn't recognise and headed towards John, who was standing alone in a corner.

He merely took few steps in his direction, when John started walking home leaving him behind.

"John" he called.

It seemed like the blond man hadn't heard him.

"John!" he said louder

No reactions from his friend.

"John", he tried again, "let's hail a cab. We're pretty far from Baker Street".

John continued to ignore him, walking even faster.

Sherlock had longer legs and a longer lope, but he found out that keeping the same pace as John was extremely difficult.

"Oh, come on, John! How old are you, 5? Can't believe you're actually giving me the silent treat" Sherlock mocked, but, realising that John was not going to change his attitude, he shut up and followed him home.

As soon as they got in the flat, Sherlock thought that John would have thrown his jacket on the floor, slammed the door behind them and started yelling at him about his recklessness and the danger he had put himself in.

He was expecting yells, insults and retorts, then finally John offering him a grin and a nice cup of tea.

When he saw John entering his room and blocking the door behind his back, he felt totally unprepared and lost.

He was eager to gather information about John's absolutely unexpected behaviour, so he walked to his door and looked for his tools to pick the lock.

He abruptly stopped when he heard John sobbing inside his room; he had never heard John crying that loud, even after those terrible nightmares about the war.

He couldn't figure why his friend was so tormented, it was completely unnecessary since they were both fine, so he placed a hand flat on the door and simply waited.

**SH – SH – SH – SH**

**Together**

John got up from the bed some time later; he felt spent, he had cried all the tears he could possibly had and maybe some more.

He was sore and thirsty, so he went for the kitchen; ha opened the door, and Sherlock was there, eyes closed and completely still as he had fallen asleep standing.

Sherlock opened his eyes, looked carefully at John and murmured "Are you ok?"

John sighed.

"Of course I'm not ok, Sherlock. Why are you here? Go away" he said, trying to sneek out of his room while the taller man was blocking his way.

"Not moving until you tell me what's wrong, John. I… I don't understand". Sherlock spoke these last words almost whispering, but John easily caught the defeat in his tone.

He knew Sherlock was "a bit not good" in fully comprehending the emotional side of facts, although he was not a sociopath as he claimed to be, so he sighed again and searched in his mind a way to explain what he felt.

"Sherlock", he started, "how did you feel when I left you behind, not listening to you, not talking to you, pretending you were not there? Did you feel bad?" John asked softly.

"I… yeah, it was bad" Sherlock admitted.

"Ok… Did you feel strange? Lonely? Abandoned perhaps?" the blond man continued.

"All of it, John. I felt like…wrong. It was so wrong" the detective answered in a whisper.

"I knew you would have felt like that, Sherlock" John told him.

"Then why did you do it? Why making me feel so bad? You're my friend" Sherlock was surprised; he never thought that John could have punished him that way.

"I was not trying to make you feel bad, punishing you was not the matter. I wanted you to feel everything I felt when you left me behind. Christ", John was fighting back the tears, "when I saw you in that alley, when I saw the knife that bugger was holding, I thought you were going to die! You were going to die and you would have left me behind, alone and desperate and… and… The silence would have come back again!"

John was finally crying, but that didn't matter because he was admitting things he had kept for himself for so long that he thought they were going to kill him.

"That silence, I only heard it when I got shot, and I was so scared… But then you came into my life and you're _noisy_, with your violin, and the shootings, and your deductions, and our heartbeats that hammer in my ears when we run after a suspect…

The thought that I could have lost all of this, the thought that I could have lost _you, _just because you acted like a jerk made me so mad! It made my blood freeze, and I almost couldn't breath! I can't lose you, can't…"

John felt his last words muffled, because Sherlock was pushing him against his chest in the strongest embrace he had ever experienced.

"Oh my God I'm so sorry John! I don't want you to feel like this, I'm not going anywhere without you! I couldn't leave you behind even if I tried, I can't think of being without you…".

Sherlock felt few tears running down his cheeks; he hold John tight for a while, then slowly eased his embrace and let John take a step back.

He watched his friend trying to regain a little control as he wiped away his tears, then, without thinking, he placed a hand under John's chin and lifted his mouth to meet him.

It was a soft, reassuring kiss, something like a way to make sure that John fully understood what he meant; when he was about to finish it, he felt John's lips open slight a bit, and he couldn't help but slid the tip of his tongue between them to taste John.

As he felt the tip of Sherlock's tongue caressing his lips, John opened them further and lightly pushed his own tongue against Sherlock's. He heard a soft moan, but he wasn't able to tell if it came from him or from his friend; he only knew that the soft meeting of lips was turning into a passionate and fierce kiss, and that his arms were around Sherlock's waist and his hands were caressing his back without any hesitation.

They stayed like that for what it felt like ages.

When they parted, none of them felt the need to say anything more: everything they need to know was written in their eyes, on their lips, all over their tangled bodies.

Just because they were not speaking, it didn't mean there was silence around them.

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><p><strong>Author here again: Thanks for reading!<strong>

**If you liked my story, if you didn't like my story, if you need to say something about my story, leave a comment. **

**Every criticism is well accepted and appreciated :)**


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